


Truth and Magic

by berrymascarpone



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Gen, Kaito is trying, Kaito talks about everything except the detective in the room, Late Night Conversations, Mitsuhiko is confused, Mitsuhiko is so underrated, Mitsuhiko is surprisingly dramatic, Shinichi's A+ mentorship, Ten Years Later, circuitous logic, lots of rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 21:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21417232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrymascarpone/pseuds/berrymascarpone
Summary: A teenage detective (no, not that one) and a magician in a diner, having a conversation that’s long overdue.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 150
Collections: DCMK Fanfiction Discord Server Recommendations





	Truth and Magic

It was one in the morning on a Thursday, and Mitsuhiko sat in the slightly sticky booth of an all-night diner just off the Strip in Las Vegas, trying to make a magician give up his answers. The desert chill frosted the windows while the bright incandescent and neon lights gave off the cold illusion of heat and warmth. The man that sat across from him was dark-haired, dressed in a dark-velvet suit dotted with tiny beaded sequins like the night sky, slightly rumpled from the show he had just finished. A top hat sat at his elbow, and his face was propped up a on white-gloved hand, while the other stirred the straw of a milkshake. Chocolate, with extra whipped cream. A supremely childish order, especially when juxtaposed against the cup of black coffee that Mitsuhiko preferred.

The face that stared back across the table was a young man, though not quite as young as Mitsuhiko’s precocious sixteen. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with just the precursors of laugh creases at the corners of his eyes. It was a strangely familiar face, dreamlike, in the way faces in dreams are said to be borrowed from people you know. The face in front of him looked copied and pasted from the detective Kudou Shinichi, or Shinichi-nii, as the former Detective Boys called him, the proprietor of the famous Kudou Detective Agency.

“So Tsuburaya-kun,” the magician said, swirling the straw in his milkshake, “What did you want to tell me?”

Mitsuhiko watched the magician’s hands. The magician’s fingers were longer than Shinichi-nii’s, slender as fine-boned bird wings, quick as staccato summer rain.

“Thinking of taking up magic?” the magician asked. It wasn’t a surprising question. There must be many who saw the magician’s breathless show, the soaring doves and dancing lights, the fun and the freedom of it, and wanted so hard their hearts ached right out of their chests.

Mitsuhiko looked up again, studying the magician’s face. He could see the differences now, the slightly different shade of blue to his eyes, more grey than the bright sapphire of Shinichi-nii’s. And the corners of the eyes slanted, more suited for sly smiles, the mouth just a bit wider. This face took on another sort of familiarity, the long-forgotten memories of childhood adventure, summers spent exploring abandoned houses in the woods and islands full of ludicrous traps.

“I want to tell you a story,” Mitsuhiko said. He’d managed to keep the waver out of his voice, for which he was proud. But he needed the magician to hear what he had to say, and he’d calculated exactly what to say to pique his interest. A magician wouldn’t be interested in fawning words, or pleas for answers. A magician, like a detective, had to be lured. With mystery and intrigue, with breadcrumb trails, right up to the final act, the last trick.

“Oh? That’s new,” The magician smiled, “Usually people want to hear my stories.” But he leaned forward, placing both elbows on the table, “Not that I’m opposed, of course. New things are always more interesting.”

Mitsuhiko’s heart hitched, surprise warring with relief that the magician had not just stood up and walked out. Ayumi always said he had a flair for the dramatic. Haibara called him showoff in the droll way of hers that meant fondness, and Genta said he should be a novelist with how he liked to make things more complicated than they were. But Shinichi-nii always told him that a good detective had to be able to explain things clearly. Explaining clearly was not blurting the answer out, but rather a slow process of teaching, leading, step by step, towards the inevitable truth.

Mitsuhiko wet his lips and began. “Once upon a time there was a magician. A famous magician, with innumerable tricks that made children and adults gasp with delight. He liked to perform, loved the stage and spotlight, so much that the shows he put on every night were not enough. He did not want his tricks to be hidden behind curtains and confined in auditoriums. He wanted his magic out in the world, where all eyes could be on him, all people could see and take joy in it.

“He began sending out notices of his appearances. To the media, the people. Law enforcement. And to make sure people came, he would propose a challenge each time. Stealing a treasure, an artifact, a piece of art. A gemstone. The treasure was always returned, of course, because the magician stole to be seen, not to be wealthy. And he was seen, by people in the streets, the everyday office workers rushing home, the child out playing with his friends, the high schoolers on their way to cram school. They saw his magic and it lit up their nights like full moon he loved to perform under.”

Mitsuhiko remembered the familiar silhouette against the luminous backdrop of the full moon, and the little shadow that chased it around so determinedly, a hound on the scent of quarry. Back when he himself had been a blissfully oblivious child, brushing shoulders with the very things he now sought to pin down. And perhaps this was how Conan had felt back then, hot on the trail of some mystery, murderer or thief. Perhaps his blood too had buzzed in his fingers like electricity, his arms prickling with goosebumps.

“But not all eyes were kind ones, not all stories end happy. There were people who saw him and wanted more than magic shows in the moonlight. And when he could not give them that, they made sure he could not put on any more shows.”

And he paused, not quite sure how to continue. Things were more muddled after this part. He’d found the first KID through carefully sifting through data, show dates and heist locations, until there were too many coincidences for doubt. But the second thief’s presence had been a ghost. Despite all the investigation he’d done, there had been nothing concrete, no smoking gun, no guilty fingerprint saying yes, it was me! Just circumstance and probability, sparse high school records and vague recollections of classmates and neighbors. He’d done his research quietly, without telling Ayumi or Genta or Haibara, and especially not Shinichi-nii. It had felt like something he needed to do alone, a chance to prove himself and find answers to the questions that only he seemed to turn about in his head like circling flies. But now he wished he had another’s certainty. The facts had coalesced into theories so certain when he’d laid them out in his mind, but now under the diner’s harsh fluorescent lights, it seemed so—trite. So obviously the guesswork of a child, that the urge to apologize and just leave, run away into the night, was so strong he had to bite back the ‘sorry’ stuck in his throat. He cleared his throat, took a sip of the coffee, and watched the magician’s hands as he spoke, the way they perched, perfectly still on the edge of the table, like birds about to startle and fly.

“But the magician’s show was not over, not really. Things like that don’t just fizzle and die, they spit off sparks, light other fires, leave embers smoldering in young, impressionable hearts. And with time and fuel and the right conditions, the embers grow, the flames climb, and another magician takes the first one’s place.

“The new magician was younger, burned brighter, and with purpose. He targeted only gemstones, and his tricks were just as bold, if not bolder, like he had something to prove. Or someone to find. And the ones who worked from the shadows to put a stop to the first magician’s shows eventually came for the second, for they could no easier abide the challenge the second time than they could the first. But this time, the magician was prepared. He’d been waiting, and planning, and he wouldn’t let vengeance slip through his fingers.

“He lured them on in the moonlight, and ripped the escape out from behind them. After all, when shadows are exposed to the light, they don’t last very long. And once his predecessor had been avenged, the magician could finally put down his top hat and monocle. He’s still a magician, I believe, because magic is more natural than breathing. But he works under the spotlight now, and on the stage, and leaves the night sky for the moon alone.”

As Mitsuhiko told his story, the magician’s face had slowly turned to stone. The smile was still there, but it existed separate from the emotion underneath, peeling off like a plaster mask lifted from the actor’s face. Shinichi-nii always said he had a way with reading faces, but right now, he couldn’t tell what lay underneath, as inscrutable as an iced-over lake in the winter.

“An interesting story,” the magician said, all affected interest, “Kaitou KID, right? He’s pretty famous in the magic circles, but he’s a bit before your time, isn’t he? There hasn’t been a heist in years, not since you were a kid. Do you have a guess for his identity? Everyone’s got a theory. Personally, I think he’s got to be part of the police force, practically above suspicion!”

“It’s not a guess,” Mitsuhiko said, slapping his hands down on the table. This wasn’t how he’d imagine things would go. The words wouldn’t stop now, bursting out like stitches under pressure. Each one carried the hint of unease, the insidious thought—that if _he_ were here, he could do it better. The thought that had dogged his every step since Edogawa Conan disappeared from his life. “Kaitou KID was too good a magician to not be a professional, and there were only a handful with the capability for the tricks he pulled, and only one whose shows and appearances roughly matched KID’s heist locations. Kuroba Touichi, whose death matched the time of the first KID’s disappearance. Your father. And your predecessor.”

There was a long pause, that seemed to stretch between them like taffy. Finally, the magician’s lips curled into a smile, and it was unmistakable. Impossible to prove in a court of law, of course, but all the lingering doubt was swept away by that knife’s edge of a grin.

“Kaitou KID,” Mitsuhiko breathed.

“Retired,” the magician—KID—no, Kuroba Kaito, said, with a shrug, “Though I applaud your showmanship. You’re wasted as a critic, really. Are you sure you don’t want to give up detective-ing take up magic?”

Mitsuhiko’s heart pounded in his chest, so loud he was surprised the American couple in the booth next to theirs didn’t jump up in terror at the thumping. He opened his mouth, then closed it, gasping like a fish that had surprised itself by jumping onto the river bank. And yet, there was something hollow about the victory, something missing. It wasn’t that he’d expected the police to show up and arrest the man as soon as he’d admitted—there wasn’t enough evidence for a conviction—but he’d expected—something more. Answers to questions. But now that he had the biggest one, the face of the who’d evaded him—evaded Conan—all those years ago, the one that got away, he didn’t feel the rush of victory, the triumph of a case well solved. He’d been chasing KID over half his life, one way or another, from when he was a child and chasing after the thief with the Detective Boys felt like one big, fun game, to the late nights pouring over old heist videos and newspaper clippings like a man obsessed, to now, the final confrontation that felt as inescapable as fate, as unstoppable as tectonic plates sliding together. So why wasn’t he feeling satisfied? Why did his mouth taste like ash, and why did frustration bubble in his stomach like too much coffee?

Kuroba spread his hands on the table, "But surely you didn’t come all the way to Las Vegas to ask me if I’m still in business? As I said, there hasn’t been an authentic heist notice in years.”

Mitsuhiko paused, too many questions warring for voice. Finally, he said, “What happened? Nine years ago, when you disappeared?”

It was the one question he could not answer, could not even come up with a suitable theory that did not sound outlandish, like a child’s overactive imagination. His recollections of the time were clouded, by time and the mist of childhood. He remembered—the summer before second grade, going camping with Professor Agasa, playing soccer in the park outside school, chasing after lost cats with the Detective Boys—the heist announcement that Conan had looked so serious about, and covered up with the fake saccharine smile he usually only used in front of adults. And the worried looks the Professor and Haibara had, as they watched it on the Professor’s living room television, staying up later than usual. Conan hadn’t been there, and Mitsuhiko remembered his annoyance, thinking that Conan was bad at time-management, or had been delayed by some mystery without them.

The footage had cut off halfway through, some technical difficulties, and they’d gone to bed disappointed. But the newspaper the next day had proclaimed Kaitou KID’s disappearance, and there had only been a small article on the fourth page—one that he hadn’t noticed until he’d gone back and searched, years later—about the apprehension of a suspected murderer with ties to a larger group. He hadn’t thought about it at the time, just a wandering thought that Conan wouldn’t be the KID-killer anymore.

And when second grade came along, there were no more heists, and no more Conan. The teacher said he’d transferred away, just as suddenly as he’d appeared, and the absence left a gaping hole in life of the blissful seven-year-old who still thought that friends were forever and things would never change.

“Nine years ago?” Kuroba looked surprised at the question. As if he’d been expecting something more fan-boyish: why he did it, the secrets to his tricks. But he rubbed at his jawline, looking thoughtful, and said, “Well you have the gist of it, don’t you? I found what I was looking for. A gemstone with a little-known legend attached to it—the Crimson Tear, which was said to grant immortality. A ridiculous story, really, but I was not the one who had to be convinced. The ones who believed it, the ones responsible for my father’s death, came for me and the gemstone, and they were caught by police at the scene, with evidence enough on their hands. Not much else to say. Well, nothing important, at least.”

“How?” Mitsuhiko felt antsy, despite the fact that Kuroba had all but confirmed his reasoning. It wasn’t satisfying, not really, like a mouthful of wax fruit, “There were reports of gunshots in the vicinity, and flashing lights. But all the police reports on the incident are sealed, and the relevant officers are not talking, or have been transferred—”

“Hasn’t your detective Kudou told you anything?” Kuroba asked, cutting off his words, “He was there that night too.”

Mitsuhiko froze, thoughts derailing, “Shinichi-nii? But he was busy with another case and didn’t come back to Tokyo until after the heist.”

At this, there was another shift in Kuroba’s expression, surprise, unguarded, then almost too quickly for Mitsuhiko to catch, realization, confusion, disapproval, guilt, and finally the calm façade snapping back into place like an iron door.

“Oh? I suppose I could be mistaken,” he drew his milkshake closer, and, with a deliberate casualness, took a deep sip, “It was a very chaotic night, after all.”

Mitsuhiko itched to ask, nearly burst with the effort of holding back questions, of not pursuing the shiny new mystery to solve. But something else stilled his tongue, a sudden and terrible premonition, like standing at the edge of a tall cliff, that there would be something irrevocable on the other side.

“I remember there was another brat that you were always hanging out with,” Kuroba said, changing the topic abruptly, “Edomura Connor, or Conan or such. Whatever happened to him?”

“Edogawa Conan?” Mitsuhiko stared at him, feeling that there was something more to the question than an excuse to change the topic. But Kuroba had his performer’s face back on, glib smile like a mask, inscrutably benign. “Conan went back to America afterwards.” Mitsuhiko said at last, “I haven’t heard from him recently. Professor Agasa says he’s doing fine though.”

And really, what could he say? He hadn’t seen Conan for nine years, over half his life. The boy should be no more than a happy childhood memory, that friend who came over occasionally as a child, but faded with time and growing up. Yet Mitsuhiko seemed to be the only one who seemed to cling to Conan’s disappearance like a stubborn dog on a trail. Haibara seemed completely unaffected, as if he’d gone on a family trip instead of transferred across the ocean back to America. And though Ayumi and Genta had been despondent at first, they had soon been busy with other things, with all the blithe concerns of eight-year-olds. Even Ran-nee-chan, who’d been red-eyed and vehement in a way that bordered on anger every time Conan’s name came up, even she had slowly replaced the brittle false smiles with real ones over the days, acceptance seeping into her attitude, though she still checked up on them often, as if she could make up for Conan’s absence with his friends.

That was also the year he’d gone to the newly returned high school detective, Kudou Shinichi, and asked him to find his friend. Shinichi-nii never had any luck tracking Conan down, beyond a few letters when Mitsuhiko pushed, about how Conan had missed them, but really couldn’t come back. It was the only thing Shinichi-nii had failed at really. It wasn’t even much of a mystery, Mitsuhiko thought, people traveled back to their home countries all the time, and if Conan’s family situation was as complicated as it seemed, who was he to pry into it?

And perhaps he’d started looking into Kaitou KID’s disappearance, not because he wanted to catch the thief, or solve a mystery that would make him famous. Perhaps what he’d wanted was to solve the mystery Conan could never crack, as some kind of proof that—what? He was better than a then six-year-old? Or had he expected that familiar blue-suited form to come running through the door the moment he caught KID, looking exactly the same as he had back when they’d all been children?

_Oh_, he realized with a sudden clarity, this hadn’t really been about Kaitou KID at all, had it.

Kuroba must have seen something in his expression because he placed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly, like a man whose patience was being tested to the limit. When he lowered it, he looked tired, mixed with no small amount of exasperation. But there was a determined glint in his eyes, something that set Mitsuhiko’s nerves on edge. He remembered the look, a distant time-fogged memory, but nonetheless something that set of warning bells in his mind. It was, he realized, the look on Kaitou KID’s face right before things began to explode.

“Why don’t you let me tell you about magic,” Kuroba said.

Mitsuhiko blinked, “But I don’t want—” but a lifted hand silenced him.

“Please, little detective. I listened to your story, didn’t I? It’s common courtesy to return the favor.”

Mitsuhiko sighed, but nodded assent. The hollow feeling in his chest hadn’t abated, and he was almost grateful for the distraction.

“The thing about magic,” Kuroba said, rubbing his fingers together, and suddenly there was the dull bronze of a coin between them, “is that it’s all about telling a story.” He tossed the coin over to Mitsuhiko, who caught it.

It was a 500 yen coin, ordinary as could be, not even a particularly noticeable scuff mark or scratch. Mitsuhiko frowned, “I really don’t need to learn about magic.” He started to put the coin away, but Kuroba tsk-ed, beckoning for him to return it. He rolled it across the table, watching it wobble just the slightest before deft gloved hands snatched it up off the table top.

“Detectives,” Kuroba said with a roll of his eyes, “You’re all so impatient. Never know how to enjoy a good show.”

Mitsuhiko colored, but the smile on Kuroba’s face was indulgent, like an older brother tolerating a younger sibling’s antics.

“As I was saying, the thing about magic—and detective work—is that it’s not just tricks and deduction, it’s less about the details and more about the overall shape of it all, the story that brings things to life. The setting doesn’t matter. The biggest stage in Las Vegas, or the scene of a gruesome murder, it’s all the same.”

The coin danced between his knuckles, flashing in the fluorescent lights of the diner. Despite himself, Mitsuhiko watched, rapt as it jumped over the back of his hand, his palm, and each fingertip like a 500-yen sized gymnast on the parallel bars.

“A magician can pull doves out of hats all day, but until he can transform a dove into a bouquet of roses, all the audience sees is a man who likes to keep birds in his headgear. Likewise, a detective can point out suspicious timing and suspects who know too much, but until he has an explanation for it all, he might as well be a public nuisance.”

He let the coin jump up, seemingly of its own accord, then clatter down onto the table booth. The sound drew a few glances their way, but nothing more than a passing look of curiosity. The number of potential magicians in Las Vegas could fill half the diners in town.

“What does this have to do with anything?” Mitsuhiko asked, feeling like a child who had wandered into a fairy circle, or fallen down into the rabbit hole. It was late, and his head was spinning from all the revelations tonight, but he had a feeling that there was still more to come.

“What did I say about patience?” Kuroba tapped the coin with a finger, “Now, watch closely.”

Mitsuhiko shut his mouth with a pout. Then blinked rapidly, as, on the third tap, the coin disappeared, as if he had pressed it straight through the table. A clatter of something hitting the floor drew his attention.

“No way!” he ducked his head under the table and, sure enough, there was a 500-yen coin on the grimy diner floor. He reached under and picked it up, turning it over in his hands to see if there was something, a mark or string or residue. But it was just an ordinary coin.

“How did you do that?” Mitsuhiko asked, popping back up into the booth and placing the coin down on the table.

Kuroba smiled, “Magic, of course.”

“There’s no such thing!” Mitsuhiko said, “What kind of trick was it?”

Kuroba shrugged, “Perhaps the coin has just passed through the table.”

“But that’s impossible,” Mitsuhiko argued, “There’s no hole in the table, and things don’t just pass through solid matter like that.”

“Ah, but that’s reality. Remember, a magician tells a story. And in the story I’m telling you now, these things are possible. Magic is real, and the coin has just passed through a solid tabletop.”

“But isn’t that just a fantasy?”

Kuroba sighed again, “Really, I’m trying to explain something here. But I suppose I should have expected no less.” He reached over and plucked up the coin again. “The key difference between detectives and magicians is that where a detective strives to tell the truth, a magician lies.”

Mitsuhiko frowned, “Lying isn’t going to last. People will always see through it.”

“It’s not,” Kuroba said, uncharacteristically solemn, and Mitsuhiko had the feeling that he was talking about something other than magic, “But a magician doesn’t get away with his lie because he’s good at lying, or because his audience is stupid and blind. No, the magician can get away with it because he tells a lie that the audience wants to believe. Because the truth is too boring, or too painful. Because there is freedom in fantasy, and it’s more stylish besides.”

“But isn’t that just putting off the reality?” Mitsuhiko said.

“Perhaps,” Kuroba looked thoughtful, and, as if by habit, he started toying with the coin again, letting it roll back and forth across the back of his hand, like a man pacing down a hall. “Do you remember Inspector Nakamori?” he asked.

“The Second Division Commander?” Mitsuhiko had the impression of a tall man with a mustache, and a lot of shouting, “He shouted a lot.”

An expression that was almost fond came across Kuroba’s face, “Yes, that was him. He was the leader of the Kaitou KID special task force. And the truth is, he lived right next to me, from the time I was a kid all the way through high school. I suppose he was the closest thing I had to a father figure after my dad died.”

Mitsuhiko’s eyes went wide, “You lived next door to the man in charge of catching you?” he was almost breathless at the audacity of it. The sheer nerve, and yet the look on Kuroba’s face was not proud, not satisfied at having pulled off the deception. Mitsuhiko wondered if he could have done the same, looked Ayumi and Genta in the face while making fools of them under another person’s mask. His stomach twisted at the thought.

Kuroba’s lips twisted in a bittersweet smile, “Yes. His daughter was my closest childhood friend, too. The whole two years of Kaitou KID’s return, and they never suspected me once. Well, never for more than a day or two. Inspector Nakamori is not a stupid man, and Aoko was top of the class, but they would rather believe the lie that I was just the neighbor’s kid who had penchant for pranks and a knack for magic tricks than the internationally wanted criminal. We’re often blind to those closest to us, after all.”

“Why didn’t you tell them?” he asked, then realized that he knew the answer. Because telling them would mean admitting to betrayal of the highest order, would put them in an impossible position, would mean crossing the bridge and firebombing it out of existence.

“Who says I didn’t?” Kuroba’s grin flashed again, genuine this time.

“But…you’re not in jail?”

“It was a close thing,” Kuroba said, and if there was a slight shudder going through him at some untold recollection, Mitsuhiko didn’t mention it. “But in the end, the truth prevailed. The detective rubbing off on me, no doubt. I came clean, told the truth—the whole truth, and it helped that the FBI was there to vouch for me.”

“The FBI?” Mitsuhiko felt the draw of another mystery, like a hook in his gut.

“It’s a long story, and one that I will not be telling you tonight,” Kuroba said, “It’s not mine to tell.” He added, before Mitsuhiko could protest, “I was more of a side character in that particular saga. You’ll have to ask the one who brought it all together.”

Mitsuhiko itched to ask, the threads of mystery burrowing down into his mind, driven by curiosity and the sense that the answer was closer than he knew, like standing with his back to a fire, searching for the heat. But the look on Kuroba’s face brooked no argument, so he asked instead, “They forgave you?”

“Eventually,” Kuroba said, and there were years of desperate hope and building trust and forgiveness in that word.

They were quite for a moment, before Kuroba smiled, abruptly as the mood had changed before, and flipped the coin into the air again. Mitsuhiko’s eyes followed it, unconsciously, as it arched through the air, and then gasped once more as another coin joined it, and a third. A quick glance towards Kuroba showed that he still had both hands on the table open and waiting to catch the three coins, one at a time. Yet, when he opened his hand again, there was the single 500-yen coin, alone on his palm.

“So,” he said, “where do you think Edogawa Conan went?”

“What?” the abrupt question had Mitsuhiko’s thoughts reeling again. Talking to Kuroba, he was beginning to realize, was as easy as trying to solve calculus equations while riding a rollercoaster with a magician in the next seat over turning your writing utensils into doves and laughing as they flew into your face.

“Your friend, Conan-kun,” Kuroba looked amused, as if sharing a secret joke with someone not present, “who seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

“He’s in America,” Mitsuhiko replied, but already the answer felt wrong, like a lie repeated so often it became rote, “he sends me letters occasionally, through Shinichi-nii.” Was it really possible for someone to be well known to so many people around Mitsuhiko, yet disappear so completely?

Kuroba made a non-committal sound. “Perhaps I was a bit of a negative influence on the detective too,” he murmured, almost too low for Mitsuhiko to catch. But the next moment, he looked up and smiled again, disconcertingly bland. “Have you figured it out yet?”

“Where Conan went?”

“The coin,” Kuroba said, twirling the coin so that it spun on the table, “since you’re so sure that it isn’t magic.” Kuroba let the coin spin down, then slid his hand over it gently. When he finished the gesture, there were two coins. Another slide, in the opposite direction, and there were three, so matter of fact that Mitsuhiko had to blink to make sure he wasn’t seeing double. A final sweep of his hand, and there was the lone coin again. He flipped his hands over, to show that they were empty.

“That’s—” Mitsuhiko bit down on the last word, _impossible_. Because nothing that happened was impossible, no matter how impossible it seemed. Coins did not just disappear; childhood friends did not vanish into the vast continent of America and still send you letters that went on for pages and still said nothing of importance. Famous high school detective mentors did not appear out of the blue to willingly take on a group of elementary-aged children as apprentices, and integrate seamlessly into the dynamic as if taking back a long-lost place in the group.

“Use your head, little detective. What was it that the great Holmes said? Once you eliminate the impossible—”

“Whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” Mitsuhiko finished. And the phrase sent a shiver down his spine, like a lightning strike lighting up the dark. It had been a favorite phrase of Conan’s, a notion that he’d instilled in the Detective Boys, as surely as a stubborn tree root. A favorite of Shinichi-nii too.

Every half-forgotten memory was a clue—the way Conan seemed so mature, so oddly aware of his own intelligence beyond his years, and so concerned about hiding it from any adult. How he seemed almost a different person alone with them, indulging their whims with an older sibling’s reluctance, despite the fact that he was a third the size of Genta. The first time he had met Shinichi-nii, almost as soon as Conan had left, and how it felt like welcoming back an old friend.

“There are only two possibilities,” Mitsuhiko said slowly, “Either the coins were never here in the first place, or they’ve been here all along.” The trick didn’t matter. The key was not the how, but the what and why.

Kuroba’s smile was small but true, full of approval, as if he could see past the surface of the words, to the meat and meaning of it. As if he were confirming the unanswered question that had been swimming like some great abyssal beast in the undercurrent of the conversation.

In that moment, the bell above the diner door chimed, and, in one smooth movement, Kuroba slid out of the booth and stood, top hat already in hand. His expression blanked again, as abrupt as a slammed door.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Tsuburaya-kun,” he said, patting Mitsuhiko on the shoulder, a brotherly tap. Something hard slid down his sleeve, and into his hand. The 500-yen coin. “And remember, if you want to learn magic, I’ll always be happy to help.”

Mitsuhiko stared at the coin, then back at the retreating back of the magician. He felt drained, shocked into stupor by the sudden departure, right when things were beginning to clear up. He wanted to shout and stop him, to take him by the shoulders and shake until all the answers came spilling out like coins from a piggy bank.

“Mitsuhiko! What are you doing here at this hour? We’ve been looking for you all over! When Haibara found your bed empty, I thought—”

Mitsuhiko turned and saw the familiar form of Shinichi-nii, coming in from the front door, disheveled and panting, as if he’d gotten out of bed very suddenly and run straight here. Behind him, Ran-nee-chan stood with a look of worry on her face. He opened his mouth, and no words came out, caught by the certainty that if he spoke it would break something that could not be put back together again.

Shinichi-nii took a deep breath, about to start lecturing, then caught sight of the quickly retreating form of the magician, already halfway out the back door. His face turned pale in a heartbeat. “That was—”

“Kuroba Kaito-san,” Mitsuhiko said, softly.

A myriad of emotions passed over Shinichi-nii’s face, and Mitsuhiko forced himself not to look away. A detective seeks the truth, no matter how painful. Shinichi-nii was the one who had taught him that, but it wasn’t until now that he realized the truth of the phrase.

“Did he call you out here?” Shinichi-nii said, gingerly, like a man poking a sleeping tiger.

Mitsuhiko shook his head, heart pounding harder than ever, “I was the one who found him. I wanted—answers.”

The look on Shinichi-nii’s face was answer enough. Ran-nee-chan’s sharp intake of breath corroborated the story that was beginning to take shape. A crazy, absurd, ridiculous story of shrinking teenagers and shadowy organizations, but one that tasted of truth nonetheless.

Questions clogged Mitsuhiko’s throat like a coat of ash, from _You knew all along?_ to _Why did no one just tell me?_ to _Were you ever going to tell us at all?_ His mouth was too dry, his eyes too hot. _I asked you to deliver letters_, he didn’t say_, who was the one writing me back all those years?_

Shinichi-nii sat down, abruptly, into the seat in the opposite booth that Kuroba had just vacated. His face was pale but determined, the same look he wore when he was about to reveal a culprit, announce the final revelation that put the whole tragic story together. Except, Mitsuhiko wasn’t sure who was the victim this time, or the culprit. Trust and truth were not so simple as a set of clues, a deduction and then curtains, that’s it, go home. He had never wondered what happened after the detectives left, how the remaining family or friends picked up the pieces and put their lives back together without falling apart in the process, but now he desperately wanted to know, to see if there was a way through it all.

“If you have questions,” Shinichi-nii said, his hands clasped together and the pallor of his face the picture of a man awaiting judgement, “I promise I will answer them with the truth as best as I can.”

He had never seen Shinichi-nii so solemn, not for the worst of murders or the scariest of culprits. Stripped of his confidence, he seemed somehow smaller, less like a detective with all the answers and more like a kid who had been in something way over his head. Like a friend desperately trying to gain back the trust he had broken. It scared him, to see the always unflappable Shinichi-nii, reduced like this, but a part of him, a bitter, betrayed part, was viciously happy, vindicated, as if he could pour out all his own years of doubt and uncertainty onto the one who had caused it.

And yet, as Mitsuhiko clutched at his cooling coffee, he had the thought—here were the answers he needed, if not the ones he had come to find. _Eventually_, Kuroba had said about forgiveness, and perhaps what he felt wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a start.

Mitsuhiko took a deep breath, watching as Shinichi-nii tensed, awaiting the blow, the final verdict. “So,” he said, “What does the FBI have to do with everything?”


End file.
